The Double-Dyed Villains

BY POUL ANDERSON

T

HE PREMIER OF LUAN was speaking, and over the planet his face glared into telescreens and his voice rang its anger. Before the Administration Building milled a crowd that screamed itself hoarse before the enormously magnified image on the wall, screamed and cheered and surged like a living wave against the tight-held lines of the Palanthian Guard. There was mob violence in the air, a dog would have bristled at the stink of adrenalin and sensed the tension which crackled under the waves of explosive sound. The tautness seemed somehow to be transmitted over the screens, and watchers on the other side of the world raved at the image.

The Premier was young and dynamic and utterly sure of himself. There was steel in his tones, and his hard handsome face was vibrant with a deep inward strength. He was, thought Wing Alak, quite a superior type.

In spite of being in the capital of the planet, Alak preferred sitting alone in his hotel room and watching the telescreen to joining the mob that yelled its hosannahs in the streets. He sat back with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, physically relaxed as the speech shouted at him:

“…not only a matter of material gain, but of sacred Luanian honor. Lhing was ours, ours by right of our own blood and sweat and treasure, and the incredible betrayal of the League in giving it to Marhal as a political bribe shall not be permitted to succeed. We will fight for our rights and honor—if need be, we will fight the Patrol itself—fight and win!”

The cheers rose fifty stories to rattle the windows of Alak’s room. Overhead rushed a squadron of navy speedsters, their gravitic drives noiseless but the thunder of cloven air rolling in their wake, and each of them carried bombs which could wipe out a city. Alak’s thoughts turned to a more potent menace, the monster cruisers and battleships orbiting about Luan—yes, the situation was getting out of hand. He wondered, suddenly and grimly, if it might not have gone too far to be remedied.

“…we will not fight alone. The whole Galaxy waits only one bold leader to rise and throw off the yoke of the League. For four hundred years we have groaned under the most corrupt and cynical tyranny ever to rise in all man’s tortured history. The League government remains in power only by such an unbelievable network of intrigue, bribery, threat, terror, betrayal, and appeal to all the worst elements of society that the like has never before been imagined. This is not mere oratory, people of Luan, it is sober truth which we have slowly and painfully learned over generations. Your government has carefully compiled a list of corrupt and terroristic acts of the Patrol which include every violation of every moral law existing on every planet in the universe, and each of these accusations has been verified in every detail. The Marhalian thievery is a minor matter in that list—but Luan has had enough!”

Wing Alak puffed on his cigarette in nervous breaths. It was, he reflected bleakly, not exaggerated more than political oratory required, and the anger of Luan’s Tranis Voal had its counterpart on more planets than he cared to think about.

The speech paused for cheers, and the door chime sounded in Alak’s room. He turned in his seat, scowling, to face the viewplate. It showed him a hard, unfamiliar face, and his hand stole toward his tunic pocket. Then he thought: No, you fool! Force is the most useless possible course—here!

He rose, pressing the admittance button, and he felt his spine crawl as four men entered. They were obviously secret agents— only what did police want with a harmless commercial traveler from Maxlan IV?

“Wing Alak of Sol III,” declared one of the men, “you are under arrest for conspiracy against the state.”

“There … must be some mistake.” Alak licked his lips with just the right amount of nervousness, but his stomach was turning over with the magnitude of this catastrophe. “I am Gol Duhonitar of Maxlan IV—here, my papers.”

The detective took them and put them in a pocket. “Forged identity papers are important evidence,” he said tonelessly.

“I tell you, they’re genuine, you can see the Patrol stamp and the League secretary for Maxlan has his signature—”

“Sure. Doesn’t prove a thing. Search him, Gammal.”

Voal’s voice roared from the telescreen: “As of today, Luan has officially seceded from the Galactic League, and war has been declared on Marhal. And let the Patrol’s criminals dare try to stop us!”

*

Thokan looked across the table at his visitor, and then back at the notes heaped before him. “Just what does this mean?” he asked slowly.

The newcomer, a Sirian like himself, shrugged. “Let’s not waste time,” he said. “You want to win the coming system-wide election. Here are fifty thousand League credits, good anywhere in the civilized Galaxy, as a retainer. There are a million more waiting if you lose.”

Thokan half rose, then settled back. His tendrils hung limply. “Lose?” he whispered.

“Yes. We don’t want you as Director of this system. But we have nothing against you personally, and would rather pay you to conduct a losing campaign than spend even more money corrupting the electorate and otherwise fighting you. If you really try, you can win an honest election. But we are determined that Ruhoc shall continue as Director, and, to put it melodramatically, we will stop at nothing to insure your defeat”

Strickenly, Thokan looked into the visitor’s bleak eyes: “But you said you were from the Patrol!”

“I am.”

“The Patrol—” Thokan’s voice rose. “But Cosmos! The Patrol is the law-enforcement agency of the League!”

“That’s right. And, friend, you don’t know what a really dirty campaign is like till you’ve seen the Patrol in action. However, we don’t want to ruin your reputation and your private business and the honesty of a lot of officials connected with elections. We would much prefer simply to pay you to stop campaigning so effectively.”

“But— Oh, no— But why?”

“You are an honest being, too honest and too set in your views—including a belief in the League constitution’s clause that the Patrol should stay out of local politics—for us. Ruhoc is a scoundrel, yes, but he is open to suggestions if they are, shall I say, subsidized. Also, under him the present corruption and hopeless inefficiency of the Sirian military forces will continue.”

“I know—it’s one of the major points in my campaign— Cosmos, you race-traitor, do you want the Centaurians simply to come in and take us over?” Thokan snarled into the Patrolman’s impassive face. “Have they bribed the Patrol? Do they really run the League? You incredible villain, I—”

“You have your choice.” The voice was pitiless. “Think it over. My orders are simply to spend what is necessary to win Ruhoc the election. How I spend it is a matter of indifference to me.”

*

As the policeman approached him, Alak drew a deep breath and let one hand, hanging by his side, squeeze the bulb in that tunic pocket. The situation was suddenly desperate, and his act was of ultimate emergency.

The sphere of brain-stunning supersonic vibrations emitted by the bulb was so heterodyned that most of Alak’s body, including his head, was not affected. But otherwise it had a range of some meters, and the detective dropped as if poleaxed. They’d be out for some minutes, but there was no time to lose, not an instant of the fleeing seconds. Alak grabbed his cloak, reversing it to show a dark blue color quite unlike the gray he had been seen wearing. He put its cowl over his red hair, shading his thin sharp features, and went out the door. The change should help some when his description was broadcast. It had better help, he thought grimly. He was the only Patrolman on a planet that had just proclaimed its intentions of killing Patrolmen on sight.

Hurry, hurry!

He went down the nearest gravity shaft and out the lobby into the street. Voal’s speech had just ended, and the crowds were howling themselves hoarse. Alak mingled with them. Luan having been colonized largely by Baltravians, who in turn were descendants of Terrestrials, he was physically inconspicuous, but his Solarian accent was not healthy at the moment. Sol was notoriously the instigator and leader of the Galactic League.

The street telescreens were showing a parade of the Palanthian Guard, rank upon brilliantly uniformed rank of the system’s crack troops, and the brassy rhythm of their bands pulsed in the veins and shrieked in the head. Beat, beat, beat, yelling bugles and rolling drums and the heart-stopping slam of a thousand boots landing simultaneously on the pavement. Swing and crash and tramp, aircraft snarling overhead with their sides afire in the sun, banners flying and trumpets roaring and the long wild charge of heroes to vengeance and glory. All Luan went crazy and shouted for blood.

Alak reflected tautly that the danger to Marhal was no less threatening other systems. The Luanian battle fleet could get to Sol, say, in three weeks, and if Voal suspected just how strong the Patrol really was—or wasn’t—

Alak had seen the dead planets swinging on their lonely way. Their seas mourned on ashen beaches, and the ash blew inland on whining winds, in over the dusty plains. Their suns were a dim angry copper-red, smoldering in skies of scudding dust and ash. Only the wind and the dust stirred, only the empty heavens and the barren seas had voice. At night there might still be an evil blue glow of radioactivity, roiling in the ash storms or glimmering out of the fused craters. Here and there the wind might briefly uncover crumbling skeletons of once sentient creatures, with only dust now stirring in their hollow skulls, with the storms piping through their ribs. A few snags of broken buildings still stood, and now and then there were acid rains sluicing out of the birdless skies. But no life stirred anywhere. War had passed by, and returned to the remotely shining stars.

He made his way through the jammed avenue into a quieter side street. Any moment, now, he could expect the hunt to start. He went with careful casualness over to a parked private car, a fast little ground-air job. He had a Patrol key, which would open any ordinary magnetolock, and with it he let himself into the vehicle and got started. Car stealing was a minor offense compared to what he was wanted for.

As he drove, he scowled in thought. That Voal’s police had known him for what he was indicated that the leader’s interests and spy system reached well beyond the local stars. He must have agents on Maxlan IV, which lay seventy light-years from Luan’s sun. If he had known the name of the Patrol’s agent, it would indicate that he knew a lot more about the Patrol itself, and this supposition was supported by Voal’s mention of fully verified cases of League perfidy. Though it was no secret that the Patrol used corrupt methods, the details were carefully suppressed wherever possible.

What was more to the immediate point, the police must have followed all Alak’s movements. So now his underworld contacts must be arrested, leaving Alak stranded and alone on Luan. And a League agent who had associated himself with some of the worst crooks on the planet could expect no particular mercy.

Headquarters underestimated the danger, thought Alak. They took this to be just another obscure squabble between frontier systems, and now Luan turns out to be a highly organized, magnificently armed power spoiling for a fight. I suppose slip-ups are bound to occur in trying to coordinate a million stars, and this is one of the mistakes—and I’m in the middle of it.

He drove aimlessly, trying to collect his thoughts. Six weeks of careful work in the Luanian underworld were shot. His bribes and promises had been getting a program of sabotage under way which should have thrown plenty of sand in the gears of the war machine. He was on the point of contacting ambitious officers who were ready to overthrow the elected government and establish their own dictatorship—one amenable to the Patrol as long as it had free access to the public treasury. Only—Cosmos, he’d been finding it too easy! The police had been stringing him along, giving him enough rope to hang himself several times over, and now—

Wing Alak licked his lips. A lot of Patrolmen got killed on the job, and it looked as if he would be another name on the list, and he personally much preferred being a live coward to a dead hero. He did not have a single lethal weapon, and he was alone on a planet out to get him. It didn’t look good.

*

The hall was old, a long dim structure of gray stone, where only the leaping ruddy flames broke the chill dusk and where the hollow echoes were like voices of the dead centuries which had stirred bloodily here. Many a council had been held in the great chamber, the results being announced with screaming war-horns and the clash of arms and armor, but perhaps none so dark as the secret meeting tonight.

The twelve earls of Mordh were seated at the head of the huge ancient table. Red firelight seemed to splash them with blood, throwing their grim bony faces into eerie visibility against the sliding misshapen shadows. Outside the windows, the mighty autumn wind flung sleet and rain at the castle walls and roared about its towers.

Dorlok, who had called the meeting, spoke first. His deep voice was low, and the storm snarled over and around its rumble: ‘To me, at least, the situation has become intolerable. When so-called honor clashes with basic instincts—and just how much honor does our dead king have left?—there is only one choice if we wish to remain sane. The king must go.”

Yorm sprang out of his seat. The light gleamed bloodily on his slitted yellow eyes. Three of his fists were clenched, the fourth half drew his dagger from its sheath. “Treason!” he gasped.

“As you like.” Dorlok’s scarred face twisted in a snarl. “Yet I would say that we have a higher duty than our oath to the king. As earls of Mordh, which now rules the entire planet and thus our entire species, we are pledged to preserve the integrity of our race and traditions. This the king, corrupted by the she-devil Franna, has lost. He is no longer a warrior, he is a drinker and idler in his palace—the swords of Mordh rust, the people cry for battle, and he sits under the complete dominion of his mistress.

This won’t be the first time a king has been deposed—and we will be driving her off the throne rather than him.”

More than half of the earls nodded their heads in dark agreement. Valtan murmured: “I wonder if she is of this planet at all? Could she not be some devilish robot invented by the Patrol’s unholy agents? Her very nature is alien to all we know.”

“No, no, my agents have checked very carefully on her background,” said Dorlok. “She is the daughter of a Mordhan spaceman who sold her on Sol III after he had run up a great gambling debt—sold her to a man of the very Patrol which seeks to destroy slavery, or says it does! Franna was educated in the Solar System, apparently with the ultimate object of becoming the king’s mistress. I have reason to believe plastic surgery was used to make her the most beautiful of our race, and certainly her education in the arts of love— At any rate, she did come back here, enslaved the king, and now for ten years has run the country—the planet—the system! And—undoubtedly on behalf of the cursed Patrol!”

“It was an evil day that the Galactic explorers landed here,” said Valtan glumly.

“To date, yes,” answered Yorm. “Of course, it was more or less accidental. If they had known we are a carnivorous people to whom combat is a psychological necessity, they would probably have left us in our feudal state. As it was, the introduction of Galactic technology soon enabled Mordh to subjugate the rest of the planet.” His yellow eyes flamed. “And now … now we could go out and fight on a more glorious scale than the old heroes dreamed … go out conquering among the stars!”

“Except that Franna holds the king slothful while we eat our hearts in tameness and kill ourselves in silly little private duels for lack of better occupation,” said Valtan. “But we are sworn by our honor to obey the king. What to do? What to do?”

“Kill her,” snarled another.

“Little use—the king would know who had done that, and have us all slain—and soon the Patrol would find some other agent of control,” said Dorlok. “No, the king must go, too.”

Yorm shook his head. “I won’t do it. No one in my family ever broke his word and I won’t be the first”

‘It is a hard choice—” mused Valtan.

In the end, seven of the great earls of Mordh were prepared to assassinate the king. The others held back, but Dorlok had, before calling the meeting, sworn them to secrecy about it. They would not help in the killing, but they would not hinder it and be glad enough to see it done.

Dorlok swept his cloak about him. “I’ll let you know my arrangements tomorrow,” he said.

He went to a certain remote room in the castle and let himself in with a special key. She was waiting, and his heart turned over at her loveliness.

“Well?” she asked.

His voice was thick as he gave her the names of the rebellious earls. She nodded gravely. “I’ll see that they are arrested tonight,” she said. “They’ll have their choice—exile to the second planet or suicide.”

Dorlok sat down, burying his head in two brawny hands, the other two hanging limp in his lap. “Now I’m forever damned,” he groaned. “I really, deep inside, believe in what I told them when I was provoking them. Those ‘weak links’ were actually the hope of Mordh. And I’ve sold them—for you.” He lifted desperate eyes. “And I’m even betraying my lord the king, with you,” he said hopelessly. “I love you—and I curse the day I saw you.”

Franna stroked his mane. “Poor Dorlok,” she murmured softly. “Poor, helpless, honest warrior.”

*

Alak abandoned his car in an alley near the spaceport and set out on foot through the dark tangle of narrow streets and passageways which was the Old City. The decayed district clustered on the west side of the port and its warehouses, and had become the hangout of most of the city’s criminal elements. It was not wise to go alone after dark through its dreary huddle, and twilight was beginning to creep over the capital. But Alak had no choice—and he had become used to such thieves’ quarters.

Presently he located Yamen’s tavern and slipped cautiously past the photoelectric doors. The place was crowded as usual with the sweepings of space, including a good many nonhumans from remote planets, and he was grateful for the dim light and the fog of smoke. There was a live show performing on a tiny stage, but even its nudity was no recommendation and Alak did not regret having to sit with his back to it in order to watch the door. He sat at a small table in a dark corner and slipped a coin in the vendor for beer. When it arrived from the chute it was warm and thin, but it was at least alcoholic. He sipped it and sat gloomily waiting for something to happen.

That didn’t take long. A Rassalan slithered into the chair opposite him. The reptile’s beadily glittering eyes searched under the man’s cowl. “Hello,” he said. “You might buy me a drink. Wouldn’t snub an old friend, would you?”

“Hardly, when the old friend would let out a squawk as to my identity if I did,” said Alak wryly. He set the vendor for the acrid and ultimately poisonous vurzin to which he knew the Rassalan was addicted, and put in the coin. “How are things, Slinh?” he asked.

“So-so.” The little dragonlike creature shrugged his leathery wings. “But the siwa-peddling racket is getting unsafe. Voal’s narcotics squad is cracking down. I can’t complain—made my share on this planet—but I’m about to leave Luan.” His black passionless eyes studied Alak’s foxy face. “I suppose you are, too.”

“Why so?” asked the Solarian cautiously.

“Look, Sarb Duman—I might as well stick to the alias you’ve been giving around here, though the police have been broadcasting a certain other name for the past half hour or more—let’s be sensible. When an unknown with apparently limitless resources starts organizing the crooks of a planet for something big whose nature he won’t reveal exactly, a being who’s seen something of the Galaxy begins to have suspicions. When the police suddenly pick up all this stranger’s contacts and start televising ‘Wanted’ notices for him with a different name and occupation appended —well, any high-grade moron can guess the story.” Slinh sipped his drink, adding smugly, “I consider myself a step above moron. Seems I have just now heard rumors of arrests in the army, too. Seems there has been a revolutionary tendency— Could the mysterious stranger have any connection?”

“Could be,” said Alak. He didn’t inquire into the nature of the so quickly spreading rumors, or how they had got started. Someday the Patrol must investigate the evidence hinting at some race in the Galaxy which had not chosen to reveal its telepathic abilities but to use them instead for private advantage. At the moment there was more urgent business.

“I might have a little trouble leaving this planet,” said Alak. “You might, too.”

“I can always find a hiding place and go into hibernation for a few years till they forget about me,” said Slinh. “But a human at large might have difficulties even staying alive. I doubt if any Luanian crooks would help a”—he lowered his hissing voice— “Patrolman now that there’s a war on. In such times, the mob hysteria officially known as patriotism infects all classes of society.”

“True. But illogical. Patrolmen are more tolerant toward lawbreakers than local police.”

Slinh shook his scaly head in some bewilderment. “I never could figure out the Patrol,” he said. “Even its members of my own race I can’t understand. Officially it exists to coordinate the systems of the Galactic League and to enforce the laws of the central authority. But after a while I quit paying attention to the stories of fabulous raids and arrests by Patrolmen and began watching for myself and speaking to eyewitnesses. And y’know, I have not been able to verify one case of the Patrol acting directly against a crook. The best they ever do is give the local police some technical advice, and that’s rare. I’m beginning to suspect that the stories of the huge Patrol battle fleet are deliberate lies and the stereographs of it fakes—that though the Patrol makes big claims, it’s never yet really arrested a criminal. In fact”—Slinh’s claws tightened about his glass—”it seems one of the most corrupt organizations in the Galaxy. Voal’s speech today was—true! I know of more cases where it’s made alliance with crooks, or supported crooked governments, or engaged in crooked political deals, that I could easily count. Like in this case here—first the Patrol, on the feeblest ‘right of discovery’ excuse, awards Lhing to the Marhalian System—Lhing, that was a Luanian development from the first—and then it seeks to overthrow the democratically elected Luanian government and set up some kind of revolutionary junta that’s sure to empty the public coffers before running for a distant planet. I don’t blame Luan for seceding from the League!”

“You could turn me in,” said Alak. “There must be a reward.”

“Not I,” said Slinh. He grinned evilly. “The police don’t approve of siwa or those who sell it. Also, what’s Luan to me? They could blow up the planet for all I care—once I’m off it. And finally—it’s barely possible we could make a deal.”

Alak ordered another beer and vurzin. “Pray continue,” he said. “You interest me strangely.”

*

Despite his purpose, despite the knowledge he had and the implacable hostility which seethed within him, Sharr felt a stirring of awe as he entered the cathedral. The long nave loomed before him, a dusky immensity lit with the wonderful chromatic sunlight that streamed through the stained-glass windows; the vaulted ceiling was lost in a twilight of height through which fluttered white birds like living benedictions; the heavy languor of incense was in the cool dark air, and music breathed invisible beauty about him from—somewhere. Here, he thought, was peace and security, rest for the weary and hope for the grieving—

Aye, the peace and security of death, the resting from duty, and a false cold-bloodedly manufactured hope which destroyed souls. The magnificent shell of the cathedral covered a cosmic rottenness that—

The archbishop stood waiting for him near the great altar, resplendent in the dazzling robes of the new church. He was of this planet, Crios, but tall and impressive, with the cold wisdom of the Galaxy behind his eyes—the upper clergy of the new god were all Crians educated on League planets. Sharr was acutely conscious of his own shabby dress and his own ignorance of the cynical science that made miracles to order. No wonder all Crios was turning from the old faith to this lying devil who called himself a new god.

“Greeting, my son,” said the archbishop sonorously. “I was told by my angel you were coming hither and—”

“I am not your son,” said Sharr flatly, “and I happen to know that your ‘angel’ is a creature from the stars who has to live in a tank but has the unholy power to read men’s thoughts—”

“That is blasphemy,” said the archbishop mildly, “but since you have been misled all your life, even to the extent of becoming a high priest of the false god, you will be forgiven this time.” “Oh, I know your artificial thunderbolts—you must have some, all your other miracles are artificial—could smite me where I stand,” said Sharr wearily. “No matter. My knowledge will not die with me.”

The archbishop’s eyes narrowed. Sharr hurried on: “When the strangers first came from beyond the stars, they brought a great hope to Crios. They cured us of many ancient ills, they gave us machines which produced more abundantly than slaves ever could … oh, yes, all the nations of Crios were glad to unify and join their Galactic League as a whole planet. But now I see all this was but the mask of the Evil Ones.”

“In what way?” asked the other. “Before, there was only one faith on Crios. Now all gods can compete equally. If the stronger—that is, the truer—gods drive the weaker from the hearts of the people, what harm? Rather it is good. If your god is true, let him produce miracles such as ours.”

“Let us not mince words,” said Sharr. “There is no one here but us. All Crios rejoiced at the possession of spaceships, for now we could bring the true faith to other worlds, saving countless souls from the Evil Ones. But no sooner had we begun organizing a great crusade than you appeared—and your sly words and your false miracles and your machine-made magnificence turn more and more Crian hearts to the god in which you yourselves do not believe.”

“How do you know we don’t?”

“Few Crians have been to space, and most of those who went have returned as traitors like yourself,” said Shan. “I went to see what power this Galactic lord of yours has elsewhere. I had my own ship and I used my own eyes. I saw that no other world had ever heard of him. I saw machines doing the same sort of things which you do here, seemingly by the power of your god, to impress the ignorant—building your churches overnight, scattering gold from nowhere, turning one metal into another; I saw creatures of horrible aspect which read minds— Oh, I began to see what your god really was. When I came back, I did a little investigation, I had my spies here and there—I know you for the cold-blooded liars you are.”

“Why should we lie? What is the point in preaching a false religion?”

“Power, glory— I can think of many reasons, but my personal belief is that you are agents of the Evil Ones, sent to destroy the great Crian crusade before it got started. Had all of this planet been pure in faith, the All-Father would have aided us and we would have swept the Galaxy before us into his fold—now we must first get rid of the false Galactic lord and then slowly, by prayer and repentance, win back our worthiness.”

The archbishop smiled, a curiously chilling smile. “And how will you go about it?” he asked softly.

“I have taken care that all priests of the true faith know what I do,” said Sharr. “It won’t help you to kill me. We will tell the truth to the people. We have prepared machines which will duplicate a number of your miracles.” Sharr lifted a clenched fist and his voice shook with triumph: “I came, really, to warn you —if you’re wise, you will leave this planet at once!”

The expected dismay did not appear. The archbishop said calmly and implacably: “You might be better off doing that. Surely you don’t think we didn’t foresee this?”

With a sense of dawning horror, Sharr stood in the singing gloom while the white birds circled far overhead. He heard the steady, relentless voice continue:

“I doubt if your machines will work. You never heard of an inhibitor field, but we have our projectors ready to generate one over the whole planet if need be. But it will not stop certain other devices we have had in preparation. If you blaspheme against the Galactic lord, major miracles will be in order. The lord himself might appear, ten kilometers tall with lightning blazing around him. Can your god do that?”

“Then”—Sharr spoke out of a dry, constricted throat—”you admit it is true—?”

“If you like,” said the archbishop cheerfully. “But try to get anyone to believe that.”

*

Slinh had a room—more accurately, a den—in one of the old abandoned sewers under the city. The little stony niche was dank and slimy and vile-smelling, but it was at least fairly safe from the police who were rounding up all aliens. Wing Alak sat hunched on the floor and cursed the day he was born.

“This hideout may be saving my life,” he grumbled, “but I wonder if life is worth saving on such terms.”

The little reptile coiled before him leered complacently. “It’s all I can offer the great Patrolman,” he gibed. His eyes glistened in the dim glow of the radiant heater that was his sole article of furniture. “If you don’t like it—”

“Never mind, never mind.” Alak tried to get down another mouthful of the fishy mess the Rassalan called food, but decided it involved too great a risk of losing what he already had eaten. “Now about this deal you offered to make—we have to act fast. Already we’re too late to prevent the war, but it’ll take the Luanian battle fleet a few days to get started for Marhal, or the Marhalians a few days to get to us. In that time we have to stop the war. Once battle is joined, it’ll be pretty hopeless before several million have been killed.”

“Never mind the pious platitudes,” said Slinh coldly. “A being who makes deals with siwa peddlers can’t afford to moralize. The point is that I’m running a terrific risk in helping you and will expect a commensurate reward.”

“Such as—?”

“How about a million League credits? That’s a good round number.”

“Done.” Alak reached for his checkbook. “Only I’ll give you my personal check. Then if I’m killed and you escape”—he grinned in the sullen red light—”it’ll do you no good, because I haven’t near that much in my account. But if we both survive, the Patrol will transfer a million to me and you’ll get ‘em.”

“How do I know you won’t welsh?”

“You don’t. But if you think back, you may recall that the Patrol has that much honor. Not that we have any notions about the sacredness of oaths—I’ve committed perjury often enough when the occasion called for it—but we don’t want to antagonize allies such as yourself. You, for instance, get around. You have contacts. We may have other jobs for you in the future.”

“I may be a siwa runner,” said Slinh contemptuously, “but I haven’t yet sunk to being a Patrolman.” He took the check and laid it carefully in the purse worn about his neck. “Very well. Now I’ve given you a hideout, but you can’t stay here long. So I’ll help you along further in case you can find a way for us both to get off this planet.”

“If I complete my job, we both will,” replied Alak “If I don’t, it’ll be too bad—for me at any rate.” He looked into the dripping gloom of the tunnel. The light was like blood on his thin pale face.

Slinh shivered. “You’re crazy as well as a crook,” he said. “Two hunted, weaponless beings against an armed system— Starfire, even stereofilms don’t indulge in that kind of trash any more.” He huddled closer to the heater. “Why doesn’t your glorious Patrol just bring its great battle fleet over here and tell the Luanians there’ll be peace or else? What kind of policeman is it that makes deals with criminals and skulks in old sewers?”

Alak ignored the complaint. Presently he stirred, holding cold hands over the red glow. “Voal is officially only premier of Luan and its colonies on other planets,” he said. “But he has influence enough to swing events as he wishes.”

“Unfortunately, he believes in what he says. You can’t bribe him.”

“No, maybe not. Unless the price was sufficiently high— Look, he’s married. He has two little children, and I don’t think those pictures of him playing with them are all posed.”

“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking—” began Slinh. “Anyway, the secret service guards—”

Alak took the vibrosphere out of his pocket. “I fooled them with this once,” he said. “It’s a secret Patrol weapon and it may fool them again. It has to!” Briefly, he explained its operation. Then he went on, his voice rising with excitement:

“Voal has a private estate in the country, about fifty kilometers from here. His family should be there—and you can carry a three-year-old child—”

They sneaked out of the tunnel after dark, emerging in a narrow alley of the Old City. Crouching back into the shadows, they strained their senses—no, no vigilance beyond routine patrols and the tension that lay like a shroud over the whole planet, the expectation of death from the skies. The whole capital huddled under its force dome, waiting for the hammer blows of hy-peratomic bombs and gravity snatchers, the silent murder of radiodust and biotoxin and all the synthetic hell which could lay waste a world in hours. Whether or not the enemy bombardments could penetrate that shield was an open question—it was the business of the navy to see that the matter was never decided, by going to Marhal and blowing the system open before the Marhalians took off for Luan.

Alak and Slinh went along the darkened walks. Not many beings were abroad, though the taverns shooks with an unnatural hysterical merriment. It was no trick to find a parked ground-air car and appropriate it with the help of Alak’s key. The difficulty would lie in escaping from the city.

The Patrolman sent the car whispering into the sky, toward the dimly glowing force-field. In moments, the call screen was buzzing and blinking an angry red. Alak switched over to the police band, keeping his face cowled and shadowed. An indignant helmeted head glared out of the screen at him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” demanded the policeman.

“Officer, I’ve got to get out of the city,” said Alak. “My wife and children—”

“The screen isn’t lowered for any civilian in wartime. One second without protection and— Now get back on the ground where you belong.”

“Be reasonable, officer. If the Marhalians were within ten light-years you’d be alerted. I … I wasn’t expecting war. I left my family up at North Pole Resort—that’s no place for them to be in wartime. They’ll recall my wife anyway, she’s an electronician—”

“How many times must I—”

“Of course, I could take it up with my old friend Jeron Kovals,” said Alak, naming the city police chief, “but I didn’t think he’d want to be bothered—”

“Well, there’s a lot of military and government traffic tonight. Wait till the next official car comes along, then you can go out with it.”

“Thanks,” Alak snapped off the screen and let his body relax, muscle by muscle. It was as much as he’d dared hope for. But if his theft was discovered while he waited—

It wasn’t. The stolen car slipped past the lowered force-dome together with a long sleek black flier bearing several stars. Alak took a direct north course until the city was behind the horizon, then opened the car up and swung in a screaming arc for the Premier’s estate.

Nighted countryside slipped beneath him. The numbers representing position coordinates changed on the car’s dashboard. He let the autopilot take over, and studied the landscape below.

“Mostly agricultural,” he said. “But… wait, there’s a pretty big region of forested hills. We’ll hide there.”

“If we escape to hide,” said Slinh gloomily.

When they were within a kilometer of Voal’s home, Alak halted the car and hung motionless on its gravity beams. “They’d detect a metal object coming any closer,” he said. “I’ll wait here for you, Slinh.”

Wordlessly, the reptile opened the door. His leathery wings flapped and the night swallowed him.

The servants were wakened by a shout and the sound of falling bodies. A blaster roared in the dark. Someone screamed, and there was heard a beating of wings out the nursery window.

When order of a sort was restored, it was found that—something—had come into the room, rendering several guards unconscious on the way; one, who had had a brief glimpse at which he had fired, swore it was a devil complete with tail and bat wings. Be that as it may, Alia, youngest daughter of the Premier of Luan, was missing, and a note addressed to her father lay on the floor.

He read it with his cheeks whitening:

Bring ten thousand League credits in unmarked bills tomorrow night at 0100 hours to that island in the Mortha River lying one hundred and three kilometers due south-southwest of your country house. Do not tell police or make any attempt to use tracer beams or otherwise trail us, or you will not see your child again.

The Zordoch of the Branna Kai was dead, and over the whole planet Cromman and such other planets of the system as had been colonized, there was mourning; for the hereditary chief of the most powerful of the clans had been well loved.

Duwan stood at the window and looked out over the great estate of his fathers. Torches bobbed through the dusk, a long ceremonial procession approached the castle with the slowness of ancient ritual. The weird skirl of pipes and the rolling thunder of drums rose in the evening, breaking in a surf of sound against the high stone walls, surf that sent its broken spindrift up to the ears of Duwan. He savored the sound, hungrily.

The Zordoch of the Branna Kai was dead; and the chiefs of the clans were coming with their immemorial ceremonies to give the crown to his eldest son.

A slave entered, genuflecting before the tall arrogant figure, purple-robed and turbaned, that stood before the window. “Your pardon, lord,” he said fearfully, “but a stranger desires admittance.”

“Eh?” Duwan scowled. The castle was closed to all but the slowly approaching chiefs. The old rituals were not to be disturbed, nor did Duwan wish distraction in this greatest of hours. He snarled his gathering anger: “I’ll have the warders’ heads for this.”

“Sire,” mumbled the slave, “he did not come in by the gates. He landed on the roof in an airship. He is not of Cromman, but from some strange world—”

“Hm-m-m?” Duwan pricked up his ears, and an ominous tingle ran along his spine. He could not imagine a Galactic having much interest in as newly discovered and backward a system as this. Later, of course, after a progressive had held the Zordochy for a few years—but now— “Send him in.”

The stranger came so quickly that Duwan suspected he had been on the way while the slave went ahead to get permission. The Crommanite recognized him as terrestrial, though he did not have the look of a Solarian—probably some colonist. What was more to the point, he wore the blue uniform of the League Patrol.

The human bowed formally. “Your pardon,” he said, “but I am on an urgent mission.” He glanced out the window at the approaching torches. “In fact, I am almost too late.”

“That is true,” replied Duwan coldly. “I must ask you to leave before the chiefs reach the castle’s gates.”

“My business can be accomplished in less time. I am, as you see, a representative of the Patrol—here are my credentials, if you wish to see them.”

Duwan barely glanced at the papers. “I am familiar with the like,” he said. “After all, Cromman has been in the League for almost a century now, though we have had little outside contact.” He felt, somehow, irritated at the compulsion, that he must explain the fact: “When we were introduced to spaceships and the like, we naturally wished to develop our own planet and its sisters first before venturing into other worlds. Also, most of the Zordochs were conservatives. But a newer generation of leaders is arising—I myself, as you see, am about to become head of the most influential clan—and we will see some changes now.”

“That is what I came about,” said the Patrolman. “It may seem strange, but I will make it short: I bear a most urgent request from Galactic headquarters that you refuse the crown when it is offered you tonight and direct that it be given to your younger brother Kian.”

For a moment the sheer barefaced effrontery of it held Duwan paralyzed. Then the black rage that made him grab for his sword was throttled by a grim control, and when he spoke his voice was unnaturally level: “You must be mad.”

“Perfectly sane, I assure you. But hurry, please, the procession will be here soon.”

“But what imaginable reason—Why, Kian is more hopelessly conservative than even my father— And the League constitution specifically forbids interference in the internal affairs of member planets—” Duwan shook his head, slowly, slowly. “I can’t comprehend it.”

“The Patrol recognizes no laws save those of its own making —otherwise there is only immediate necessity,” said the human cynically. “I will tell you why we wish this later, if you desire, but there is no time now. You must agree at once.”

“Why … you are just crazy—” The rage came again, bitter in Duwan’s throat: “If you try to impose your will forcibly on Cromman, you’ll find that our boast of being a warrior race is not idle.”

“There is no question of force. It is not necessary.” The Patrolman reached into his portfolio. “You traveled quite a bit through the Galaxy some years ago. And the moral code of Cromman is stern and inflexible. Those two facts are sufficient.”

*

With a horrible feeling of having stepped over the edge of the world, Duwan watched him extract a bundle of stereofilms, psychographs, and other material from his case. “When the chiefs arrive with the crown,” said the Patrolman smugly, “I will explain that, while the League does not wish to meddle, it feels it to be a duty to warn its member planets against making mistakes. And the coronation of a Zordoch who had been guilty of, shall we say, moral turpitude in the fleshpots of the Galaxy, would be a definite mistake.”

“But—” With a feeling of physical illness, Duwan looked at the pictures. “But … by the Spirit, I was young then—”

“So you were. But will that matter to Cromman?”

“I … I’ll deny—”

“Stereofilms could be faked, yes, but not psychographic recordings, and there are plenty of scientists on Cromman who know that. Also we could produce a Crommanite or two who had been with you—”

“But— Oh, no!— Why, one of those Crommanites was a Patrolman who … who took me to that place—”

“Certainly. In fact, just between us—and I shall deny it on oath if you repeat it in public—the Patrol maintains that house and others like it, and makes a point of persuading as many influential and potentially influential beings as possible to have a fling there. The records we get are often useful later on.”

Duwan reached for his sword. The Patrolman said evenly: “If I fail to report back, this evidence will be made public. I think you will be wiser to refuse the Zordochy for reasons of … well, ill health. Then this information can safely gather dust in the Patrol’s secret files.”

For a long, long moment Duwan stared at the sword. The tears blurring his eyes seemed like a film of rust across the bright steel. Then he clashed it back into its sheath.

“I have no choice,” he said. “But when the League breaks its own laws, and employs the filthiest blackmailers to do the job, then justice is dead in the Galaxy.”

*

Three days later, Alak’s agreed code call went over the Luanian telescreens. Slinh received it and lifted the stolen car into the air. “Now be quiet,” he told the dirty, tear-faced child with him. “We’re going back to Daddy.” He added to himself, “Of course, it’s possible that Daddy had Alak drugged or tortured to give the signal. That’s what I’d have tried. But if so, it’s only what the Patrolman deserves for leaving me in charge of this brat.”

For fear of its radiations revealing his hidden car to searchers —metal detectors were dangerous enough—Slinh had only turned the televisor on for a few seconds at the agreed hours. Now, as he listened to the newscasts, a dawning amazement held him motionless. “Marhal has offered compromise— Premier Voal in secret conference— Secession from League being reconsidered—”

Holy Galaxy! Had Alak really pulled it off? If a crook like that Patrolman, hunted and alone, could overturn a planet—

Slinh set his vehicle down on the lawn of the Premier’s city residence. The force dome was down and only a few military craft were in sight. Peace—

Tranis Voal stood before the house with his arm about his wife’s shoulders. There were no other officials in sight, with the possible exception of Alak. The Patrolman stood to one side, his hair like coppery fire in the sun, the look of a fox who has just raided a chicken coop on his sharp face; but there was somehow a loneliness over him. Though he was the conqueror he was still one man against a world.

Slinh led the child outside. Voal uttered a queer little choking cry and fell on his knees before her. When he looked up, tears gleamed in his eyes and ran down his haggard cheeks. “She’s all right,” he choked. “She’s all right—”

“Of course she’s all right,” said Alak impatiently. “Now that your government has gone too far toward peace to back down, I don’t mind telling you that no matter what your attitude would have been, she wouldn’t have been harmed. Patrolmen may have no scruples, but we aren’t fiends.” He added slowly, somewhat bitterly, “Only a completely honest man, a fanatic or a fool, can be really fiendish.”

Slinh tugged at Alak’s sleeve. “Now will you tell me just what happened?” he hissed.

“What I hoped for,” said Alak. “After you left me on the island and took the kid into hiding, I just waited. That night Voal showed up with the money.”

“Hm-m-m—so you also got a little personal profit out of it,” said the Rassalan slyly.

“I didn’t want his money, I didn’t take it,” said Alak wearily. “The ransom demand was simply a device to make him think a gang of ordinary kidnapers had taken the girl. If he’d known it was the hated and untrustworthy Patrolman who had her, he’d probably have been out of his head with fear and loathing, have brought all the cops on the planet down on me, and … well, this way I got him alone and I had a club over his head. I told him the Patrol couldn’t weigh the life of one child against several million, perhaps billion, and that we’d kill the kid if he didn’t listen to reason. He did. I came here with him, secretly, and used him as my puppet. With his emergency powers, he was able to stop the scheduled assault on Marhal and swing the government toward conciliation. A truce has been declared, and a League mediator is on the way.”

Voal came over. The wrath that had ravaged his face still smoldered sullenly in his eyes. “Now that I have her back,” he said, “how do you know I’ll continue to follow your dictates?”

“I’ve come to know you in the last few days,” answered Alak coolly. “One thing I’ve found out is that, unlike me, you’re a perfectly honest man, and you want to do what you think is right. That makes it possible for me to take an oath of secrecy from you and reveal something which will—I hope—change your attitude on this whole matter.”

“That will have to be something extraordinary,” said Voal icily.

“It is. If we could find a private place—?”

Slinh looked wistfully after the two men as they entered the house. He’d give a lot to eavesdrop on that conference. He had a shrewd suspicion that the greatest secret in the Galaxy was about to be revealed—which could have been useful to him.

They were in Voal’s study before Alak said: “I want to get over that barrier of hostility to me you still have. I think you’re objective enough to have seen in the last few days that the Patrol has no desire to oppress Luan or discriminate against it. Our job is to keep the peace, no more and no less, but that involves a paradox which we have only been able to resolve by methods unknown to policemen of any other kind. You can’t forgive my murderousness toward your child—but I repeat that there never was any. We would not have harmed her under any circumstances. But we had to make you think otherwise till my job was done.”

“I can stand it myself,” said Voal grimly. “But what my wife went through—”

“That was tough, wasn’t it?” Suddenly the bitterness was alive and corrosive on Alak’s face. Contempt twisted his thin lips. “Yes, that was really rugged, all three days of it. Have you ever thought how many millions of mothers this holy war of yours would have left without any prospect of getting their children back?”

*

Voal looked away from his bleak eyes and, for lack of better occupation, began to fumble with bottles and glasses. Alak accepted his drink but went on speaking:

“The basic secret of the League Patrol—and I want your solemn oath you will never breathe a word of it to anyone—” he waited till Voal gave agreement, “is this: The Patrol may under no circumstances take life. We may not kill.”

He paused to let it sink in, then added: “We have a few impressive-looking battleships to show the Galaxy and overawe planets when necessary, but they have never fought and never will. The rest of the mighty fleet is—nonexistent! Faked pictures and cooked news stories! Patrolmen may have occasion to carry lethal weapons, but if they ever use them it means mnemonic erasure and discharge from the service. We encourage fiction about the blazing guns of the Patrol—we write quite a bit ourselves and call it news releases—but it has absolutely no basis in fact.”

He smiled. “So, though we might kidnap your daughter, we would certainly never kill her,” he finished.

Voal sat down. His knees seemed suddenly to have failed him. But he looked up, it was with an expression that Alak found immensely cheering. He spoke slowly: “I can see why a reputation as formidable fighters would be a great asset to you —but why stop there? Why can’t you stand up and fight honestly? Why have you, instead, built up a record of such incredible villainy that the worst criminals of the Galaxy could not equal it?”

Alak relaxed into a chair and sipped his cocktail. “It’s a long story,” he said. “It goes right back to the beginning of interstellar travel.”

He searched for words a moment, then began: “After about three centuries of intercourse between the stars, it became plain that an uncoordinated Galactic civilization would inevitably destroy itself. Consider the problems in their most elementary form. Today there are over a million civilized stars, with a population running up over ten to the fifteenth, and exploration adds new ones almost daily. Even if that population were completely uniform, the sheer complexity of administrative detail is inconceivable—why, if all government services from legislators to postmen added up to only one percent of the total, and no government has ever been that efficient, that would be some ten to the thirteenth individual beings in government! Robocomputers help some, but not much. You run a system with a population of about two and a half billion, and you know yourself what a job that is.

“And then the population is not uniform, but fantastically diverse. We are mammals, warm-blooded, oxygen breathing— but there are intelligent reptiles, birds, fish, cephalopods, and creatures Earth never heard of, among the oxygen breathers alone—there are halogen breathers covering as wide a range, there are eaters of raw energy, there are creatures from worlds almost next to a sun and creatures from worlds where oxygen falls as snow. Reconciling all their needs and wants—

“The minds and the histories of the races differ so much that no intelligence could ever imagine them all. Could you think the way the communal race-mind of Sturvel’s Planet does? Do you have the cold emotions of a Vergan arthropod or the passionate temper of a Goldran? And individuals within the races usually differ as much as, say, humans do, if not more. And histories are utterly unlike. We try to bring the benefits of civilization to all races not obviously unfit—but often we can’t tell till too late. Or even … well, take the case of us humans. Sol has been at peace for centuries. But humans colonizing out among the stars forget their traditions until barbarians like Luanians and Marhalians go to war!”

“That hurt,” said Voal very quietly. “But maybe I deserved it”

*

Alak looked expectantly at his empty glass. Voal refilled it and the Patrolman drank deep. Then he said:

“And technology has advanced to a point where armed conflict, such as was at first inevitable and raged between the stars, is death for one side and ruin for another unless the victor manages completely to wipe out his foe in the first attack. In those three unorganized centuries, some hundreds of planets were simply sterilized, or even destroyed. Whole intelligent races were wiped out almost overnight. Sol and a few allies managed to suppress piracy, but no conceivable group short of an overwhelming majority of all planets—and with the diversity I just mentioned such unanimity is impossible—could ever have imposed order on the Galaxy.

“Yet—such order was a necessity of survival.

“One way, the ‘safest’ in a short-term sense, would have been for a powerful system, say Sol, to conquer just as many stars as it needed for an empire to defend itself against all corners, without conquering too many to administer. Such a procedure would have involved the permanent establishment of totalitarian militarism, the murder or reduction to peonage of all other races within the imperial bounds, and the ultimate decadence and disintegration which statism inevitably produces.

“But a saner way was found. The Galactic League was formed, to arbitrate and coordinate the activities of the different systems as far as possible. Slowly, over some four centuries, all planets were brought in as members, until today a newly discovered system automatically joins. The League carries on many projects, but its major function is the maintenance of interstellar order. And to do that job, as well as to carry out any League mandates, the Patrol exists.”

With a flash of defiance, Voal challenged: “Yes, and how does the Patrol do it? With thievery, bribery, lies, blackmail, meddlesome interference— Why don’t you stand up openly for the right and fight for it honestly?”

“With what?” asked Alak wearily. “Oh, I suppose we could maintain a huge battle fleet and crush any disobedient systems. But how trustful would that leave the others? How long before we had to wipe out another aggrieved world? Don’t forget— when you fight on a planetary scale, you fight women and children and innocent males who had nothing whatsoever to do with the trouble. You kill a billion civilians to get at a few leaders. How long before the injustice of it raised an alliance against us which we couldn’t beat? Who would stay in a tyrannical League when he could destroy it?

“As it is, the Galaxy is at peace. Eighty or ninety percent of all planets know the League is their friend and have nothing but praise for the Patrol that protects them. When trouble arises, we quietly settle it, and the Galaxy goes on its unknowing way. Those something times ten to the fifteenth beings are free to live their lives out without fear of racial extinction.”

“Peace can be bought too dearly at times. Peace without honor—”

“Honor!” Alak sprang from his chair. His red hair blazed about the suddenly angry face. He paced before Voal with a cold and bitter glare.

“Honor!” he sneered. “Another catchword. I get so sick of those unctuous phrases— Don’t you realize that deliberate scoundrels do little harm, but that the evil wrought by sincere fools is incalculable?

“Murder breeds its like. For psychological reasons, it is better to prohibit Patrolmen completely from killing than to set up legalistic limits. But if we can’t use force, we have to use any other means that comes in handy. And I, for one, would rather break any number of arbitrary laws and moral rules, and wreck a handful of lives of idiots who think with a blaster, than see a planet go up in flames or … or see one baby killed in a war it never even heard about!”

*

He calmed down. For a while he continued pacing, then he sat down and said conversationally:

“Let me give you a few examples from recent cases of Patrol methods. Needless to say, this is strictly confidential. All the Galaxy knows is that there is peace—but we had to use every form of perfidy and betrayal to maintain it.”

He thought a moment, then began: “Sirius and Alpha Centauri fought a war just before the founding of the League which nearly ruined both. They’ve managed to reconstruct since, but there is an undying hatred between them. League or no League, they mean to be at each other’s throats the first chance they get.

“Well, no matter what methods we use to hold the Centaurians in check. But on Sirius the government has become so hopelessly corrupt, the military force so graft-ridden and inefficient, that action is out of the question.

“Now a vigorous young reformer rose, honest, capable, popular, all set to win an election which would sweep the rascally incumbents out and bring good government to Sirius for the first time in three centuries. And—the Patrol bribed him to throw the election. He wouldn’t take the money, but he did as we said, because otherwise, as he knew, we’d make it the dirtiest election in even Sirian history, ruin his business and reputation and family life, and defeat him.

“Why? Because, of course, the first thing he’d have done if elected would have been to get the military in trim. Which would have meant the murder of several hundred million Centaurians—unless they struck first. Sure, we don’t like crooked government either—but it costs a lot less in lives, suffering, natural resources, and even money than war.

“Then there was the matter of an obscure barbarian system whose people are carnivorous and have a psychological need of combat. Imagine them loose in the Galaxy! We have to hold them in check for several generations until sublimation can be achieved. Fortunately, they are under an absolute monarch. A native woman whom we had educated managed to become his mistress and completely dominate him. And when the great nobles showed signs of revolt, she seduced one of them to act as her agent provocateur and smoke out the rebellious ones.

“Immoral? Sure. But two or three centuries hence, even the natives will thank us for it. Meanwhile, the Galaxy is safe from them.

“A somewhat similar case was a race by nature so fanatically religious that they were all set to go crusading among the stars with all the weapons of modern science. We wrecked that scheme by introducing a phony religion with esoteric scientific ‘miracles’ and priests who were Patrolmen trained in psychotechnology—a religion that preaches peace and tolerance. A dirty trick to play on a trusting people, but it saved their neighbors—and also themselves, since otherwise their extinction might have been necessary.

“We really hit a moral bottom in the matter of another primitive and backward system. Its people are divided into clans whose hereditary chiefs have absolute authority. When one of the crown princes took a tour through the Galaxy, our agents managed to guide him into one of the pleasure houses we maintain here and there. And we got records. Recently this being succeeded to the chiefship of the most influential clan. We were pretty sure, from study of his psychographs, that before long he would want to throw off the League ‘yoke’ and go off on a spree of conquest—it’s a race of warriors with a contempt for all outsiders. So—the Patrol used those old records to blackmail him into refusing the job in favor of a safely conservative brother.

“Finally we came to your present case. Marhal was ready to fight for the rich prize of Lhing, and the League arbitrator, underestimating the determination of Luan, awarded the whole planet to them. That was enough to swing an election so that a pro-League government came into power there. I was sent here to check on your reactions, and soon saw a serious mistake had been made. War seemed inevitable. I tried the scoundrelly procedure of fomenting sabotage and revolution. After all, that damage would have been negligible compared to the cost of even a short war.”

“The cost to Marhal,” said Voal grimly.

“Maybe. But after all, I had to think of the whole Galaxy, not Luan. Sometimes someone must suffer a little lest someone else suffer a lot more. At any rate, my scheme failed. I resorted to alliance with a dope smuggler—he ruins a very few lives, while war takes them by the millions—and to kidnaping. I threatened and bluffed until you had backed up so far that mediation was possible.

“Well, that’s all, then. The League commission is on its way. They’ll have some other fat plum to give Luan in place of Lhing —which I suppose will make trouble elsewhere for the Patrol to settle. Your government will have to go out of power after such an about-face—you’re rejoining the League, of course—but I daresay it’ll soon get back in. And you have been entrusted with a secret which could split the Galaxy wide open.”

“I’ll keep it,” said Voal. He smiled faintly. “From what I know of your methods—I’d better!” For a moment he hesitated, then: “And thanks. I was a fool. All Luan was populated by hysterical fools.” He grimaced. “Only I still wonder if that isn’t better than being a rogue.”

“Take your choice,” shrugged Wing Alak. “As long as the Galaxy keeps going I don’t care. That’s my job.”